


How The Night Poisons Our Skin

by VenetaPsi



Series: A Scream and a Dream [1]
Category: Lunch Club, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst and Feels, Character Study, Childhood Friends, District 7 (Hunger Games), F/M, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Main Character Slimecicle, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Psychological study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenetaPsi/pseuds/VenetaPsi
Summary: He began to laugh.A horrible, cracking, sobbing laugh that brought him to his knees as he wracked with hysterics, shivering, hugging himself as tears streamed down his face and mirth filled his chest.
Relationships: Charlie Dalgleish & Grace Safford, Charlie Dalgleish/Grace Safford
Series: A Scream and a Dream [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741147
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	How The Night Poisons Our Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [on a roll of the dice (a story from floor 6)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23934958) by [everythingFangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingFangirl/pseuds/everythingFangirl). 



> I want to make it clear that this story is NOT set in Havok's universe. It's definitely inspired by it, and by Everything's fantastic writing as well, but this is its own separate thing that is unrelated to the Floor 6 canon.

Many things went into making a good joke. The delivery, the uniqueness; the context and how clever you were for speaking it. Tuning it to fit your audience’s humor, and getting the timing  _ just _ right. Ticking off each little box to make your joke as likely to land as possible. 

But there’s always that chance for it to fall flat. You could stutter half-way through. Say it to the wrong person. Slip in an atmosphere that doesn't fit. Or maybe your humor doesn’t match the other persons. 

Even when telling the most  _ perfect _ joke, there’s still that tiny sliver of chance that it’ll flop. 

That chance.

Charlie personally didn’t believe in ‘good’ or ‘bad’ luck. Or even luck in general. In his experience, what was good luck for one person was bad for another; where one chance of slimmer and the other greater, the rarer occurred less. 

It was a numbers game, one that could be hypothesized but not predicted. 

There was no luck, no change. Only the result that came of it. 

Condi’s hand tightened on his own. His fingers dug into Charlie’s palm painfully, and he almost wanted to tell his friend to stop. He didn’t. 

Charlie never believed he had bad luck.

Never. 

The man on the stage reached into the glass ball before him, and pulled out a small piece of paper. It was a little crumpled, and wasn’t folded symmetrically. It looked like it’s submission had been hurried; rushed and messy. 

Condi squeezed his palm tighter, and Charlie leaned closer to him, letting the warmth of Condi’s arm press through both their sleeves into his own body. He felt vaguely nauseous. He always had.

_ “Charlie Dalgleish!” _

__ Until now. 

\---

The training room was eerily quiet, empty as it was. The tall, bright lights on the ceiling were dimmed, and the distant climbing walls and simulation booths were shadowed, all of the holograms off and the systems tucked away. 

Charlie walked forward, trying to focus on the each of his footsteps on the cement instead of the window forty feet above his head, where a hundred men and women feasted and looked down at him; waiting for a demonstration on just how effective he’d be at murder. 

The sound wasn’t  _ quite _ loud enough for that. 

He approached the weapon rack, because it was under a spotlight. It looked like he was supposed to approach it. He chanced a glance up when he reached forward and picked up a spear. Thin, crafted metal. Lightweight and balanced. He saw multiple nods of approval from those looking down at him. 

Something cold and furious knotted tight in Charlie’s chest. He dropped the spear, letting it clang to the ground with an ear shattering clatter in the silence. 

Every one of the judges stared down at him in shock. 

Charlie turned and walked back out of the room, leaving the shadows and the spotlight and the cold metal on the ground untouched. 

The next day he endured his mentor’s fury, his district partner’s confusion, and grimly watched as a bright ‘1’ appeared beside his face. 

He had utterly failed the training. 

For the first time since his name was called, Charlie felt something almost like satisfaction. 

\---

In District 7, the place where Charlie was born and raised, there was a small dirt path that led off of the street and behind a wooden hut. Behind it, was a stretch of grass.

Across the grass, there was a stump, and beyond the stump, a small creek that twisted and turned and bubbled merrily about it’s way. 

Beyond the creek was a clump of hanging willows; long, pale branches that brushed the ground and swirled in the wind. That curtained a small clearing away, out of sight. 

Beneath those branches, five boys often gathered. Tucked away in a little halo of pale green- five children could play make believe. Fight in the grass, swing from trees. 

As they grew older, they went there to talk. To spend time together. To escape, for a little while. 

Charlie sat there often, with his friends. Small group that they were, they knew each other well. Care about each other. 

When they were eleven, the group got a roll of twine and tied small bracelets around each other’s wrists. 

A token to remember one another by.

Just in case.

\---

Charlie pressed the knot of a small bracnet into his hand anxiously, shivering despite the warm jacket covering his arms. A small tube stood before him, like what he’d imagine a ‘cryochamber’ looking like- at least from how Jared used to describe them in their games. 

A soft female’s voice was counting down from a hundred and sixty. 

Exactly how many more seconds he had before he needed to be standing inside. 

Charlie closed his eyes tightly and tried,  _ very hard, _ not to freak out. 

He opened his eyes, and still felt bile in the back of his throat. Terrible fear churning through his gut. 

He didn’t want to die. 

Charlie stood there until the robotic voice reached fifty three, and then he stepped forward, letting the glass of the tube surround him. Almost instantly, a panel rose up from where he’d stepped in, sealing him inside. Over his head, the roof opened up, revealing a long tunnel upward that was pitch black. 

Charlie twisted his hand in the bracelet tightly as in seemingly no time at all, the tube began to rise. Sealing him in pitch black until suddenly he was shot up into blinding light; cold air whipping his clothes and hair and he stared around, blinded momentarily by bright sun. A loud, projected voice was ringing unhearing, but deafening in his ears as he stared around at the  _ city  _ that surrounded him. Tall metal and stone buildings, cement streets, urban environment as far as the eye could see. His fingers twisted tighter, and he felt the twine of his bracelet snap under the pressure, looked down in shock as the tiny strand of tan floated through the metal grate below his feet, disappearing into pitch black like a leaf down a drain. 

Charlie was still staring down, clutching his hand when a cannonshot exploded throughout the arena, and everyone began to run. 

\---

He crouched in the corner of a stone skyscraper, knees to his chest. He was panting horribly; completely winded from his frantic tear through the streets, and empty handed. 

When Charlie had looked up from the grate, he had seen bodies already cooling on the stone. Bloody weapons in practiced hands. 

He’d turned and ran. 

Now Charlie pressed himself as far into the shadows as he could go, back to cold metal, and tried not to cry. Or pass out. 

After a few minutes, he did both. 

  
  
  


When Charlie woke, his body was stiff with his cramped position, and he was surrounded by near pitch black. He stumbled towards the only spot of dim light he could see, and ended up in the entranceway to his skyscraper, staring out as a dark street and the clear, starry night sky. His throat burned with thirst, and his limbs felt shaky and tired. Far in the distance, he could see a spotlight that he assumed shone over the cornucopia and the surrounding area. 

He sat down on the steps to the building, resting his chin in his hand, and stared up at the moon. 

He touched his bare wrist. 

\---

Charlie stopped dead still in an alley, head cocked; listening. The pockets of his jacket were heavy with base-ball sized rocks and some sort of carrot-like root, and his hand drifted to settle on one of the two objects (he grabbed a ‘carrot’) upon realizing the sound he heard was voices. Human voices. 

Switching his grip to that of a rock, he pulled out his only means of defense quietly and pressed his back against the nearby brick wall, willing his boots to for once be completely soundless as he crept across the sandy concrete. 

The voices grew closer, one male and one female, and Charlie’s fingers ached from how tightly he clutched his rock. 

The pair rounded the corner, and stopped dead. In their hands were a sword and a spear; machine made and collected from the cornucopia. They stared at Charlie for a few seconds, seemingly confused, and Charlie stared back, raising his rock threateningly. 

The girl smiled faintly, lifting her spear, and Charlie turned and ran. 

The metal slammed into the brick three inches from his head as Charlie dove to the side and bolted, skidding on the asphalt as he rounded a corner and tore down the street, dropping his rock in favor of pumping his arms widely. His weighted pockets slammed painfully against his sides as he sprinted into another building, hopping a table and skidding on tiled floor before taking off towards the nearest exit. There were heavy, male footfalls close behind him. 

He dove through the exit, and in a snap decision, hid behind the open door, pressing his back against the stone of the building. His heart thudded painfully, his lungs burning as he held his breath tried desperately not to give away his position with panting as the man raced out of the exit and looked to either side in exasperation before picking the left and running down it.

Charlie shivered and slid down the wall until he was huddled against the door, and gasped for air. 

_ Fuck. _

\---

“I’m sick and tired of hunting you, rat,” The District 1 girl hissed, spear clenched in her hand as she advanced forward. Charlie backed up until his back hit the glass behind him, fingers pressing against the cold material that was built so strong bullets couldn’t break it. 

The walls to either of his sides felt like a death sentence. 

“No wonder you got a ‘1’,’ She snarled, “If all you can do is run like a little bitch. I’ve been chasing you for two  _ goddamn days.” _

__ “Hey- hey listen…” Charlie offered nervously, offering the girl a hesitant smile. His hands were shaking as he raised them in a placating gesture. “We can...we can talk about this-”

_ “TALK ABOUT THIS?” _ She cackled, almost hysterical, and Charlie cringed away from her as she held her spear with one hand and pulled her bag off over her head with the other, tossing it away. It slammed against the nearby wall and fell over, contents spilling. She didn’t seem to care. “I’m going to have  _ fun _ killing you, pet.”

‘ _ Please Condi- guys- don’t be watching _ ’ Charlie silently begged, and shrunk back against the glass as she leveled the spear, tip aimed towards him. 

“Please- please don’t-”

Charlie wasn’t above begging for his life, but the girl took a step forward and snarled again, smirking. 

“You’re going to suffer, Seven.” 

Charlie stared at the sharp, metal tip that was about to be driven forward into his chest. 

_ No. _

She moved forward again, arms tensing.

_ NO. _

“NO!” Charlie screamed when she dove forward, flinching to the side. His arms snapped out and he grabbed the shaft of the spear as the tip rammed forward into the glass that had sealed him in with a nasty ‘THUNK’. The girl shrieked in rage, but Charlie ducked under the spear as she tried to yank it out, running past her towards the exit. 

She whirled, swinging the weapon and hot pain slashed across Charlie’s leg, sending him crumpling to the ground with a scream of pain. District 1 charged him, shouting a wordless cry of rage, and Charlie’s hand fumbled out desperately, grabbed a vile that had rolled out of her bag. 

He threw it, and the bottle shattered against her collarbone. 

She flinched back at the dig of glass, but Charlie saw the green liquid in the vile latch onto her skin. The girl suddenly shrieked in pain, spear clattering to the floor as both her hands flew to her neck, grabbing at the sludge, the slime that crawled it’s way down her shoulder and across her breast, seemingly glowing. He latched onto her hands and she couldn’t pull them away. Her skin began to steam and boil as she shrieked, twisting and writhing and Charlie watched, stunned, frozen until the girl sank to her knees, howling in terrible agony. 

Only then did he act, snatching the spear and launching to his feet, and before Charlie knew what was happening, the spear was driven forward into the girl’s gut. 

He stepped back as her body fell to the floor, lifeless. The spear protruded out of her middle and the green ooze continued to slowly spread; enveloping her body, boiling it away until only a blobby mass of green and a single metal spear sticking out remained. 

Charlie felt hot and sick and scared and joyful and in pain. 

He began to laugh. 

A horrible, cracking, sobbing laugh that brought him to his knees as he wracked with hysterics, shivering, hugging himself as tears streamed down his face and mirth filled his chest. 

“She’s a fucking slime popcicle,” He giggled, and the green mass boiled and bubbled and made a little popping noise. He laughed harder, tears streaking the ground from where he hunched over. “A slimecicle, a fucking- a fucking  _ slimecicle-  _ I’m slime man!”

Slime stayed there, huddled up, long after his tears and chuckles had faded away, long after the ball of slime had hardened into an almost rock-like substance.

The sun sank into the horizon with him sitting there, staring at a bloodied spear. 

\---

Slime made his way down the street in the dark, with a backpack that wasn’t his and a cornucopia dagger in hand. 

\---

There were footsteps behind him, and Slime whirled around, swinging out instinctively with his blade. A sharp clang of metal on metal shattered the silence as his dagger collided with a sword, blocking a swing aimed for his neck. He stared into green eyes and reddish brown hair and wide eyes. 

“Charlie?” Grace asked in shock; voice horrified, and Slime stared at his District partner in equal shock. Their weapons both clattered to the ground at the same time, and the girl dragged him forward into a tight hug. He hugged her back, wrapped his arms around her smaller frame and buried his face in her hair, let himself live in this one moment of safety. 

“Alliance?” She whispered, voice choked with tears, half giggling. 

“Alliance,” He quietly agreed, and held her tighter.

\---

Slime slammed the man from District 8 to the ground, both of them colliding painfully with the concrete below them. District 8 yicked out, slamming his boot into the side of Slime’s face, sending him reeling, and Slime got his vision back just in time to see the man reaching back for his sword, just a few inches out of reach. 

Slime rolled out of the way right as the blade came crashing down with a ‘CLANG’, pushed himself up onto his feet and grabbed at the spear still laying untouched in the cornucopia before jumping back, whirling to face the man that advanced towards him, blood dripping down his face from the cut on his forehead. The man wiped it away wordlessly, and spat on the ground. 

“Just you and me now, Seven,” The man growled, and fury and pain- white hot and overwhelming sliced through Slime’s heart, his chest, his lungs. 

“I don’t think you get the  _ point,” _ He snarled back, and lunged forward, slamming the tip of the spear down towards the man. Slime was nearly blind with rage. 

“You’re not taking this from me,” Eight shot back, swinging his blade, and it sliced through Slime’s sleeve, leaving red to bleed into the white. Slime aimed his spear again, and pressed the button on the shaft near his finger. 

Suddenly, the tip of the spear rocketed out like a powerhead, and with an almost sick squelching sound, embedded itself in the chest of the man. 

Slime stepped back as blood bubbled from the man’s lips, his face contorted in a permanent expression of shock before his heavy, limp body tumbled forward in unison with a terrible cannon blast. 

Slime stared down at the corpse for a few stunned seconds before he dropped the spear handle and whirled, sprinting across the small courtyard, past the cornucopia and towards a prone form lying in the shade of a building. 

He knelt at Grace’s side, and the girl turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were dark, nearly grey, and her skin was pale as he leaned closer, pressing his hands down on the wound in her gut that bubbled warm, sticky blood. 

“Did you...win…?” She mumbled, and Slime bent closer, resting his face above hers. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, and his voice cracked. “Yeah. I’m so...I’m sorry Grace, I-”

“Charlie,” She hushed, and her head raised slightly, her lips pressing against his. Chastely. Her skin was cold, and her mouth tasted of copper and ash.

Her head fell back against the stone, and her body went limp in his arms as he stared down at her. His chest felt hollow. Numb. 

A cannon blast shattered the air.

The victor.

\---

His skin felt hot and itchy with makeup as he stood under the stage lights, the screaming and applause of the capital ringing in his ears. The commentator guided him forward, lowered him into a chair and asked him questions that Slime answered mechanically.

Then they made him watch their recap- all of the moments of the game over again. All the blood on his hands, and himself; scared and fleeing and-

And Grace, cold in his arms. 

Then he was led to his feet by a hand in his, and a crown placed upon his head. His arm was raised up into the air in a perfect mime of victory as thousands of capital spectators screamed and cheered and shattered his eardrums with their praise. 

That night he cried himself to sleep.

The next day he was on a train to District 1, to begin his tour of the country. 

\---

They told him specifically that he had an hour until he needed to be on stage and reading his speech to District 7. He had exactly 47 minutes to quietly visit friends or family, so long as peacekeepers accompanied him the entire time. 

The second his guides were gone, Slime whirled around, practically jogging towards the metal gates that released him from the backstage of the rigged setup. His two bodyguards matched him pace for pace, hanging a foot or so behind, and Slime felt his breath shudder when he stepped out into the sunlight, gace falling on the rows upon rows of wooden houses and buildings. The trees that grew every which way. 

The dirt streets were bare as he slowly continued on. Everyone was gathered in the square, or hiding in their homes for as long as they were allowed. He seemed to drift down them; lost in his mind and moving on pure muscle memory- the kind built off of years of walking the same paths day after day. 

Slime stepped around the back of a shambly wooden hut, and stopped. 

Across the grass, there was a stump, and beyond the stump, a small creek. It twisted and turned and bubbled merrily about it’s way. 

But beyond the creek, was a clump of hanging willows; long, pale branches that brushed the ground and swirled in the wind. That curtained a small clearing away, out of sight. 

And through the swirling branches, Slime saw four figures. They sat in close proximity to each other, talking quietly. Their voices drifted; too soft to understand, but loud enough for the solumness of their tone to resonate over silent town. 

Something cold and knotted tightened in his chest, like a fist had rammed down his throat and grasped ahold of his heart. 

He inhaled shakily, and a soft, pained sound- almost like the whimper of an injured animal, escaped his lips. 

A soft pattering reached Slime’s ears. Like raindrops. He looked down at the dust below his expensive leather boots and saw dark spots surrounding them; patches of liquid in the dryness. 

His cheeks felt sticky and cold, and his eyes burned. 

The peacekeeper to his right had been staring at him for several moments. Slime saw out of the corner of his eye, the soldier reached out. The peacekeeper’s hand settled hesitantly, almost gently, on the crook of his elbow. 

“Shall we return?” The soldier asked quietly, as to not alert the small group oblivious to their presence. Then, after a moment of pause more. “...Slimecicle?”

Slime shivered. He felt cold.

And tired.

When he turned and walked back, the peacekeepers followed without a word. Slime scrubbed at his eyes, smearing his tears with the back of his hands. 

He could still hear Condi’s voice ringing in his ears. 

\---

Slime stood on the stage before all of District 7, and the cameras that were sending his image to all of Panem. There was a small card of stiff, uniform, perfectly white paper in his hand, dotted with neatly printed black letters that spelled out his speech. 

He didn’t need the card anymore. He knew the speech by memory from the presentations at the previous eleven districts. 

The words spilled from his lips effortlessly, and he hardly glanced down. His voice was monotone in his ears, though perhaps less so to everyone else's. Slime honestly couldn’t tell if the infliction he was trying to but into his voice or the smile he pressed onto his lips showed through. 

_ Haughty, but humble. A bit naive, but dangerous. Cocky. You are a victor, after all. _

The words, the  _ instructions, _ rung in his head. 

He felt nauseous. Again. 

When he neared the end of his words, Slime’s gaze finally settled on the group he’d been unconsciously searching for the entire time he’d spoken. 

His friends were sitting clustered together in a small group. Each of them watched him intently. Jared, Nate, Zach-

But Condi most of all. His face was open slightly, hesitant; torn between disbelief and overwhelming joy and terrible fear. 

Slime could see each emotion fighting for dominance. 

His final sentence flowed from his lips. All he had not to do was say ‘goodbye’, and walk off the stage. Let them escort him back to the train. 

Slime stared at the small group of four. 

He realized suddenly, there was an empty seat to Condi’s left. 

Almost unconsciously, his finger’s drifted to his wrist; to touch bare skin where a small bracelet of gnarled twine no longer resided. 

Charlie opened his mouth once more. 

“And to my friends,” He said softly,  _ whispered _ almost, staring at them. Watching them snap up, their eyes widening, their shoulders tensing. There was stirring in the people behind him.

_ No matter what you do, you stick to their script. _

“I’m so,  _ so _ sorry you were forced to watch what I’ve become.” 

A ringing, terrible silence reached Charlie’s ears. 

A peacekeeper grabbed his arm and dragged him back away from the mic, towards the doors to the mayor’s house at the back of the stage. But not before Charlie saw his friends launch themselves to their feet, rushing forward through the crowd. 

Condi’s scream of his name rang in Charlie’s ears over the overwhelming cacophony of people’s voices, and Charlie was dragged inside to the sight of guards closing in on the small group, keeping them back from the stage despite Condi’s continued cries. 

“CHARLIE!  _ CHARLIE!” _

The doors slammed shut, and a quietness settled over everything. The crowd outside muffled, the panic subdued inside the cold, marble entrance hall. 

There were tears rolling down Charlie’s cheeks. 

“Goodbye.” He whispered. 


End file.
